Plasma Frequency Magazine: Issue 12

by Arley

  "Come here and let me do your nails," Agatha said.

  ~

  "Have you read this morning's paper?" Mari asked, the next day.

  "No," Agatha replied. "I was busy giving Cat a bath."

  "I thought she cleaned herself."

  “She does, but there are some places in the middle of her back she can't reach."

  "Is that fingernail polish remover?"

  Agatha nodded. "Cat had some nasty residue on her claws that could be harmful if ingested. What's in the paper that's so interesting?" she asked.

  "One of the headlines caught my attention: 'The Smiling Corpse.' The article tells how a man matching the description of my stalker was torn to shreds by a wild animal."

  "Why are you so glum, Mari? If the article is accurate, I'd think that would be a reason for rejoicing on your part."

  "It would be, except the write-up mentions the police found some as-of-yet unidentified human DNA on clothing left at the scene, and the description of the black party dress calls to mind the one that's missing from my closet."

  "Ah! That was a serious oversight on my part. Sorry. Maybe we should consider getting out of town until this whole affair blows over."

  Soon thereafter, Agatha moved her unlicensed practice to a remote location on the edge of an enchanted forest. Marigold Jones went with her.

  They set up shop in a spacious cavern with a humongous main chamber and several smaller antechambers that functioned as waiting rooms. It was thought advisable to keep many of their clients separated from one another.

  Mari served as the receptionist and also filled in, when needed, as a surgical assistant. For example, she held the stepladder steady while Agatha used a broadsword to lance a large boil on the backside of a troll. Later, they both agreed it would have been better for all concerned if Mari had held an umbrella during the operation instead of the ladder.

  At the end of a typical day, a succession of curious problems had been dealt with until the antechambers were finally empty.

  "You have one more patient to see," Mari announced, one afternoon.

  "I thought we were finished. I didn't hear anyone else come in," Agatha said.

  "We communicated with sign language."

  "So, what's out there?"

  "A banshee with a sore throat."

  Agatha stuffed her ears full of cotton. "Send her in," she said.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

  John H. Dromey was born in northeast Missouri. He’s had short fiction published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Gumshoe Review, Liquid Imagination, two previous issues of Plasma Frequency Magazine, Sorcerous Signals, and elsewhere, as well as in a number of anthologies, including Plan B Volume III (in potentia press, 2014).

  Cake and Necromancy

  By Rebecca Roland

  The bell chimed over the door as Madilyn's last customers of the day left. The smells of chocolate, cake, cream, and coffee clung to her nostrils and clothes. She wore black, as she'd come straight to work in the morning from her mother's funeral.

  Madilyn tidied her brochure display. The front read, "Suggestions to Maximize One's Experience when Contacting the Dead." She'd memorized the contents long ago and hardly gave them much thought any more, but tonight they rattled around in her head like dancing bones.

  Unless you want a yes or no answer, you should ask an open ended question. Remember, you only get one, so consider carefully.

  She bagged the leftovers to donate to the food pantry, trying not to dwell on her own unanswered questions.

  The deceased cannot predict the future, so questions about winning lottery numbers, who will win a sporting event, or your future happiness will be wasted.

  She counted the money three times, then carefully wrote out the deposit slip and tucked it all in the bank bag. Madilyn had made it a point long ago not to dwell on the past, but think only about today. Yet here she was, examining events from long ago. Funerals had a way of doing that to a person.

  You can only speak with family, either biological or adopted, so efforts to summon Jesus, Ghandi, Lincoln, JFK, Hitler, or any other historical figures will probably not work.

  She prepped for the next day, just as Gram had taught her, cleaning equipment and work surfaces. It kept her hands busy, but let her thoughts go unchecked.

  Madilyn had heard all sorts of questions since she'd taken over her grandmother's bakery years before: Where did you keep the life insurance policy? Did you ever really love me? Were you ever proud of me? Was so-and-so my biological kid? What's the combination to the safe? That one hadn't gone so well when the deceased husband couldn't recall.

  There was usually a reason some of these questions didn't get asked when folks were alive. And it was why Madilyn had never seen fit to ask a question herself.

  Oh, she had plenty for her mother: Why did you leave us?

  Madilyn already knew it was because her mother thought she'd found something—and someone—better. Gram had waited for her prodigal daughter's return, but with each passing year it grew more unlikely, and she soon took Madilyn on as apprentice.

  Was the guy worth leaving your infant daughter and husband?

  Well, she'd never come back and never contacted them, so Madilyn supposed it was.

  Did you ever love me, even for an instant?

  A thousand hooks seemed to grasp her heart and pull it in all directions. She was afraid of the answer to that one. No, I'll never ask that one. What if her mother left because Madilyn was unlovable?

  With her work done, she sank into the couch in the back room where she summoned the dead, a slice of her special chocolate cake before her, and three candles on the coffee table providing light. It was a tableau she set several times a week for customers. Tonight would be different. She had to ask a question, whether she wanted to hear the answer or not, so she could put it all behind her.

  She sank her fork into the fluffy cake and held it beneath her nose. She breathed in the smell of chocolate, and beneath it something spicy that tickled her nose...magic.

  Before she could back out, she popped the bite into her mouth. It was moist and chocolaty and perfect. Gram's recipe, generations old by the time she learned it, never failed.

  She swallowed and sat back, waiting for the magic to take hold. It warmed her throat and stomach like a shot of whiskey, then spread to her fingers and toes. When it had taken root in every molecule of her body, she summoned.

  "Mother," she whispered.

  A figure shimmered to life before her, clearly human, but the features unreadable.

  "Madilyn," it said.

  She'd watched enough home videos to know her mother's voice. A lump formed in her throat. She had little time, though, so she forced the words past it. "I have a question for you." She took a deep breath, folded her trembling hands in her lap, and hesitated. Her heart was a wild mess in her chest. Did she really need to hear this? Did she want to?

  The figure flickered like a bulb about to die. Madilyn's mind spun. She had to ask her question quickly.

  "If there was one thing you could have done over when you were alive, what would it be?"

  Such a long moment passed that she began to think she'd waited too long. Then the figure said, "I can't say I wouldn't have left."

  Madilyn squeezed her eyes shut. She knew she shouldn't have asked a question.

  "But," the figure continued, "I would have taken you. Your father might have been a decent provider, but he was a terrible husband. My life was such a mess right after you were born, I thought you'd be better off with my mother. And when I finally got my act together, too much time had passed. I thought maybe you'd hate me, and I couldn't bear that, so I stayed away." She paused. "And there is the answer to your question."

  The figure faded, the last faint wisps drifting away as if on a breeze.

  So her mother had worried that Madilyn hated her even as Madilyn worried that her mother didn't love her. How different would her life be if only her mother hadn't been afraid? Sh
e shook her head at all the wasted years. There was no going back now, only forward, always forward.

  Madilyn packed up a slice of chocolate cake for Gram before blowing out the candles and leaving the bakery.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Rebecca is the author of Shards of History. Her short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in publications such as Stupefying Stories, Plasma Frequency, and Fantasy Scroll Magazine, and she is a graduate of the Odyssey Writing Workshop. When she's not writing, she's usually spending time with her family, torturing patients as a physical therapist, or eating copious amounts of chocolate.

  e-razored

  By J.S. Watts

  Warmth. The smell of fresh, damp soil. The raucous euphoria of this planet's dawn chorus: joyous cries from the indigenous fauna in the branches overhead and the metallic sound of her survival canisters being violently overturned.

  Grabbing the nearest heavy object, she rushes out of the perma-shelter to find a man crouched down and rummaging vigorously through her formerly well-stacked kit. He's grubby and unshaven and dressed in the same grey, utilitarian one-piece she's wearing. She yells at him and he looks up, grinning. The grin is not reassuring.

  "It's my lucky day: life support cans, an erect and fully functioning shelter, and its rather luscious, brunette lady occupant. I like brunettes."

  She takes a firmer grip on the universal wrench in her hand and says nothing.

  "Aren't you going to say hi, babe? No? Do you have a name or is the planet-jump still screwing with your memory?"

  She's not going to admit to any weakness. Instead, she says, "They're my cans you're rifling. I get to ask the questions. What's your name, and what do you think you're doing?"

  "Well, I admit I'm still a bit hazy about the first, but as for the second..." He trails off as he glances from her to the canisters and back again. "I'm after some additional supplies, a ready-made shelter, and a nice bit of arse, not necessarily in that order." He grins again, standing up in a single motion and lunging at her.

  Her response is swift and instinctive. He hasn't even managed to touch her when her left boot kicks him hard in the balls. The sickly grin becomes a grimace as he doubles-up over his damaged assets. Then the universal wrench comes down on the back of his skull with a dull thud.

  She wonders, without concern or remorse, if she has killed him, but he's not dead, just badly stunned. She has him trussed up like a celebratory land-fall turkey before he regains any semblance of full consciousness.

  When his eyes finally open, she is standing over him with the wrench firmly grasped in her hand once more.

  "Let's try again, mister. Who are you, and why were you messing with my cans?"

  It's his turn to say nothing.

  "This wrench'll make a lot more mess of your ankle bones than it did of your thick head." She raises the wrench above his legs.

  "Okay, okay. Look, my memory's as shot as yours must be. The planet-jump's still fucking with my head. I can't remember my own name. The jump also fucked up my cans. I slept under an emergency tarp last night, so this morning I came looking for replacement kit. So sue me."

  She raises the wrench again.

  "Which planet are we on?"

  "Can't help you there. If I can't remember my own name, I sure as hell ain't gonna remember the moniker for this whoreson pile of shit."

  She looks around. The planet is green and fresh and alive. It doesn't look like a pile of shit to her. It looks like hope. Another black mark against the bound man by her feet. He already has a number of them.

  "So you got no name and this planet's got no name. What can you remember?"

  For a minute he looks confused and angry. "Nothing but the survive-and-settle instructions I must've got programmed into my head. They're blocking out everything else."

  "Not quite everything, apparently." She looks meaningfully at his crotch.

  He shrugs. "Nothing but a man's instinctive reaction to some available fresh pussy."

  "It's not available," she says, as she brings the wrench down on his right ankle. The bones crack loudly. His screams echo round the clearing and startled bird-type creatures flutter up from the trees.

  "Nothing but a woman's instinctive reaction to a rapist," she says and she knows inside herself that this is true: her reaction is in-built, automatic, what she does.

  Now she has a problem, though. Her would-be rapist and thief has a badly smashed ankle. Does she let him crawl away on his one good leg and hope he doesn't come back when she's sleeping? Does she shatter his other ankle and drag him out into the surrounding wilderness to die, or possibly survive, or does she just kill him outright and have done with it? Her gut says kill him, but she looks around at all the hopeful, fresh, greenness and her heart says she could do with a clean start, a new life without the stain of blood and guilt. Then she hears a noise in the bushes behind her.

  Spinning, she is confronted by another man, older than the first by two or three decades, to look at him. There is white in his beard and hair and his one-piece coverall is faded and heavily patched. The bow and arrow in his hands, however, look recently made, well maintained and deadly.

  "Put the wrench down, sister and I'll lower my bow."

  "And then?"

  "And then we'll talk about what you did to that feller to make him scream like a homeworld stuck pig and why you done it."

  The notched arrow is still pointing at her. She lowers the wrench slowly. He un-notches the arrow. She places the wrench on the ground. He places the arrow down on the ground in front of him.

  In his turkey-trussings, her first uninvited guest is getting vocal.

  "Help me, mister. You gotta help me. The fucking whore's busted my ankle bad and stole my kit. I was only trying to get back what's mine, but then the ho's gone and done this. It hurts bad, and I need drugs for it." He bumps himself along the ground towards the new comer.

  "Whoa there, brother. Stop where you are. I hear you, but the both of you's just fresh meat as far as I'm concerned, and I aim to hear both sides of the story before I do anything about anything. Sister, you wanna tell me what happened here?"

  "I planet-jumped yesterday. Came round in this clearing with my survival canisters beside me and the survive-and-settle instructions in my head screaming at me to get the basics set up before sun-fall. I do the business thoroughly and go to sleep, only to find this douchebag rifling my cans as soon as it's sunrise. He plans to treat me like flesh for the taking, and I show him what a woman can do to man-flesh, given half a chance. Simple as that. I wasn't the one making trouble."

  Bow and arrow man looks at trussed-turkey guy. "Want to change your story any, brother?"

  The guy scrabbles nearer and whines, "It's my kit. She stole it and busted my ankle. I'm the innocent victim, mister. I only want what's due me."

  "Okay, let's see, shall we?"

  Bow and arrow man walks briskly to the cans and starts to sort through them himself. She makes a growl of protest, but he silences her, and she surprises herself by accepting it, although she keeps her eyes on what he's doing. He produces an unopened canister labelled Med-Hy-F. Opening it, he pulls out women's sanitary protection and annual female contraception boosters.

  "I'd say these cans were sent down with a sister. What do you say?"

  Trussed-turkey man starts squawking again, but the other man turns his back on him and walks towards her.

  "Got a name yet, sister?"

  "I don't know. I can't remember."

  "Don't say that to no one else. Gives you away as very fresh meat. No newcon remembers their name when they first get here. Some remembers a few years later, but not many. I'd pick yourself a new name and start using it pronto. I call myself Woods. What shall I call you?"

  She looks around the clearing for inspiration. The plants remind her of bushes on the homeworld. She is surprised she can remember this, but not her own name.

  "Laurel. You can call me Laurel, for now."

  "Nice to meet you, Laur
el." He nods. "Looks like you got yourself well set up, already. Must have worked with a passion yesterday. Not all do."

  She looks Woods up and down. "What you after, Woods?"

  "Nothing. I heard Dick Brain back there screaming, and I came to investigate, is all. Call it neighbourly. I hunt round here, and mine's the nearest claim. Not that you can tell. Been here a few years. Always like to check out the newcons. See what we're getting. You'll do, I reckon. Not sold on him."

  "So what're newcons?"

  "You are. Dick Brain is. I was, once. All new arrivals are newcons: new convicts, see?"

  "Convicts?"

  "This is a penal colony, Sister Laurel. A prison planet, to be precise. Don't you remember nothing?"

  "Not really. Stupid things like garden plants at home and some images from when I was little—happy things, but then the happy stops, and the images get more messed up. Don't know why, but I think, maybe, there's stuff I'm glad I can't remember," she shudders. "Anyway, then it all goes blank. Nothing. Just the survive and settle imperatives going round and round inside my head. Why am I here? What did I do?"

  "Who knows? That's supposedly why they wipe your memories, e-razor them: a fresh start someplace, and no baggage to weigh you down. This is where the homeworld disposes of its serious offenders. They get shot of us without getting their hands dirty. The planet kills a good many of us and forcibly rehabilitates the rest."

  Laurel's thoughts are working hard now; testing out what Woods has said against what little she knows and, more importantly, what she feels deep down.

  "So, I'm a criminal? I did something real bad to warrant this?" She waves her right hand broadly to indicate the clearing, possibly the whole planet and maybe everything beyond. Woods catches her hand. She lets him. He turns it palm up.

  "There's your proof: your con number. They tattoo that on you when you start your sentence."

  She studies the purple code etched across her palm: LoD574699F.

  "LoD? I'm a lifer?"

  "You remember some things, then."

  "Not really. A bit. I know certain things. Like what LoD means."